


don't need a crown to know that I'm a queen

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), He knows he's a snack, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Confident Aziraphale, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: “You’re beautiful, angel; the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in all of Creation, and those knobs would be fortunate to lick your shoes. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”“Oh, my dearest.” He brushes a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles, running his thumb over them. “You are so very sweet to me, and I appreciate the compliment. But I assure you, my self-esteem remains unmoved in either direction by those louts’ words.”“Glad to hear it.”Aziraphale gets an idea and stands up, tugging at Crowley’s hand. “Come upstairs, darling.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 274





	don't need a crown to know that I'm a queen

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to [Lizzo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dnYDsm-fDI).

They’re dining outside on the restaurant patio when a younger couple walks by. Both Aziraphale and Crowley’s eyes flick up, but they pay no further heed when they see neither member is of a sort they find aesthetically pleasing. Certainly they’re attractive, albeit in a very over-groomed, plasticine sort of way; but there’s nothing interesting or even remotely individualistic about them. Everything is perfect, from their clothes to their impeccably styled hair. 

They queue up outside of the nightclub next door. Evidently they think the hedge that separates the patio from the sidewalk is soundproof, because some very rude conversation drifts their direction. 

“I see they still need to work on cleaning up some of the old bits of Soho. Did you see that bloke with the ancient suit? Might as well pack him off to the V&A as an exhibit.” 

“At least he appears to be doing his own thing, unlike the pipe cleaner dressed like a washed-up rock star.” 

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who looks like he’s narrowing his eyes behind his glasses. He rests his fingers against Crowley’s wrist: _wait_. 

“Surely there’s places more appropriate for the olds to gather. A shuffleboard court? A senior centre?”

“God I know right? If I wanted to be confronted with my own mortality I’d go look at a fucking Keith Haring exhibit.” 

It’s the last remark that sets him off. He certainly doesn’t give a fig what a couple of strangers think about how he looks, and while he is offended on Crowley’s behalf, he’s mature enough to shrug off a snide remark. But to hear about a truly frightening time in recent memory referred to with such vicious, casual disregard? 

“Allow me, darling,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Crowley to hear. He concentrates for a moment and it’s done. He takes a sip of his rosé and smiles in pleasure, at the refreshing cool of the drink and at a job well-done.

“What did you do to them, angel?” Crowley’s eyebrows are raised high enough they’re visible above his glasses.

“Nothing terrible, of course; just incredibly irritating. It’s possible one of those poor boys might experience a rather visible blemish before a highly anticipated date. The other one may get ingrown hairs in a particularly sensitive area the next time he gets a wax.” He takes another sip. “It seemed appropriate.” 

“You utter bastard,” Crowley says, and it’s so full of love and affection it makes Aziraphale blush.

“Only a little bit, my dear.” 

“It’s more than enough.” 

— 

They’re tangled together on the couch in the bookshop when Crowley speaks up. “You know what those tossers said was complete bollocks, right?” 

“Mm?” It takes Aziraphale a second to parse the question. He’s pleasantly muzzy and warm from the brandy they’ve been enjoying tonight. 

“You’re beautiful, angel; the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in all of Creation, and those knobs would be fortunate to lick your shoes. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.” 

“Oh, my dearest.” He brushes a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles, running his thumb over them. “You are so very sweet to me, and I appreciate the compliment. But I assure you, my self-esteem remains unmoved in either direction by those louts’ words.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

Aziraphale gets an idea and stands up, tugging at Crowley’s hand. “Come upstairs, darling.” 

“All right.” Crowley’s bemused, but does as he’s requested. 

In the bedroom, Aziraphale sets a chair against the wall, near the foot of the bed. He gestures for Crowley to sit, so he does. 

He takes off his waistcoat, the jacket already shed when they entered the shop. As he reaches for his bowtie, he makes eye contact with Crowley, who swallows hard, his throat flexing.

He unravels his tie until it hangs loose round his collar. He must admit tartan is a bit more difficult to make rakishly disheveled, but the way Crowley is looking at him it worked well enough.

The buttons at the top of his shirt are next. There's a soft inhale of breath from Crowley as Aziraphale’s throat is exposed, that little bit of skin apparently enough to set his desire alight. On another occasion he would go over, let Crowley fondle and kiss and bite; or pull Crowley to the bed, tilt his head back and let Crowley mouth at his pulse. But that’s not what’s happening tonight. 

He untucks his shirt from his trousers, looking through his eyelashes for Crowley’s reaction. His hands are gripping the front legs of the chair: not desperately tight, but firmly enough that Aziraphale knows he’s affected. That realization sparks an answering rush of heat between his legs, and he bites down on his lip so he won’t make a noise. 

He toes off his shoes, kicking them out of the way. He’s not normally so casual with his things, but they’re well-made enough a few scuffs won’t hurt them. It’s absolutely worth it for the way Crowley shifts on the chair, like he’s trying to relieve the pressure in his stupidly tight pants. (Aziraphale would feel bad for him but he chose to wear the damn things, and Crowley’s usually the cause of his own misfortunes. It’s an added bonus he wriggles in frustration so prettily.) 

He works his way down the other buttons on his shirt: slow, measured, deliberate. The air is cool on the line of skin down the middle of his torso. Crowley eyes it, like he desperately wants to rub his nose into the soft, pale fuzz of Aziraphale’s chest, splay fingers across the curve of his belly. 

His trousers are next, and he lets them drop to the floor with a soft rumple before stepping out of them. He takes his time folding them, laying them on the back of another chair. He smiles, and Crowley’s expression is one of pure, unadulterated want: a parched traveller stumbling across an oasis, a starving beggar presented with a feast. 

“Patience, my dearest. I promise it will be worth the wait.” Hunger is the best sauce, after all.

Crowley nods, even though it’s obvious he’d much rather not. At his acquiescence, something in Aziraphale’s chest warms, spills over. They’ve never explicitly spoken of it, but the way Crowley always does as he’s told feels like it should be rewarded, just a little.

“Thank you for your trust, darling. You’re such a good boy for me, and it makes me so very happy.” Crowley shudders at the words like he’s been physically touched, and a little noise escapes his mouth. Interesting. 

His cufflinks are next, and he puts them into a little bowl on the dresser with a clink. Crowley’s staring hard now, his breath rapid like he forgot how his corporation works. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, letting the sleeves fall above his wrists. Crowley reaches out, like he could catch ahold of them from where he is, revere them with his lips as he is wont. 

“Not yet, my sweet. Soon.” 

It’s time to get rid of his shirt, and he shrugs himself out of it, draping it over his trousers. He tugs his pants off and lays near the foot of the bed. He’s so ridiculously wet, it’s a wonder they’re not soaked through. He gets rid of his socks with a miracle, because there’s really no way to make taking off socks erotic. 

He expects it to feel more vulnerable, naked and laid out in front of somebody else. But looking at Crowley, half-dazed and ravenous with desire, there’s only pleasure and beneficence. He’s happy to revel in his body, delight in how good it feels, and enjoy it in front of the being he adores most, and who adores him in turn.

He slips his fingers between his legs, stroking where his lips meet. He’s dripping, so much he barely has to touch himself before he can feel them coated slick. 

Crowley makes a desperately turned-on noise. “You’re going to discorporate me, angel, I swear.” 

“But what a way to go.” He smirks and rubs a finger over his clit, round and full and aching to be touched. _Oh_ , that’s fucking marvelous, and a little moan escapes him. 

“Like I said, utter bastard.” Crowley’s palming himself now, trying to get any bit of relief.

“If I was as bad as you say I am, I wouldn’t let you touch me at all tonight. Just make you watch as I bring myself off again and again, until I fuck myself senseless. And I wouldn’t let you touch yourself either.” (He doesn’t think that would actually be very fun, but he can’t say definitively until he tries it. Another time.)

He moves over his clit, trying to just enjoy the sensation, but he's so _ready_ , probably has been since he locked eyes with Crowley, and that little touch already has him pushing his hips against his hand.

"Fuck," Crowley groans, his hand tightening on the chair leg, hard enough the edges of the wood must be digging in. "Keep going angel, I want to see you."

He says this like Aziraphale had intentions of stopping, and it makes him want to laugh. His fingers work at his clit, and he wishes he had another hand free so he could get them inside his aching, empty cunt. But he wants to watch Crowley watch him, so he'll prop himself up on an elbow. (It will be so much better when he gets his demon's lovely, splendid cock.)

For a bit there's only the noise of harsh breathing and the obscene wet slide of skin on skin. Crowley's watching like he wants to burn the sight of Aziraphale spread in front of him into his retinas, see this debauchery every time he closes his eyes.

"Gorgeous angel. The most stunning creature I've ever seen." Crowley's voice is rough, trembling, and it makes Aziraphale ache with need. 

"Tell me, darling, please." He doesn't mean for it to come out as pleading as it does, but he's past caring.

"So exquisite; the most wondrous, perfect temptation ever devised for me." Crowley sounds absolutely wrecked, and it almost sends Aziraphale over the edge, his breath catching on a whimper.

"That's it, let me see you. Come apart, love; you’re so fucking beautiful like this I can barely stand it.” 

Everything shatters, and the moment hangs suspended before time continues moving. He’s faintly aware of a noise that might be Crowley’s name, the pulsing aftershocks of his climax, his chest heaving like it actually needs air. 

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley breathes, and it’s the closest to a prayer Aziraphale’s ever heard out of his mouth. “Please, may I?” It’s not quite begging, but he would have to be a monster to refuse a request with such need behind it. 

He nods, not quite capable of speech yet.

Crowley doesn’t get up from the chair so much as stagger to the bed and collapse between Aziraphale’s legs. He shifts his hips in invitation, and Crowley sinks in, slow and deliberate. Always such restraint, even though he must be half-mad with effort from holding back. 

“It’s all right, darling. You’ve waited more than long enough.” 

He feels hot breath at his neck as Crowley fucks into him, hard and deep and absolutely perfect. He’s not going to come like this, but it still feels good, the drag and stretch of Crowley chasing his release. 

Crowley’s rhythm starts to become more erratic, and Aziraphale murmurs nonsense into his ear, stroking the back of his head. A little gasp and he arches forward, spilling hot and wet inside, breathing hard. Aziraphale can feel a damp sheen of sweat where Crowley rests his forehead against his cheek.

He presses a kiss to Crowley’s hairline, affectionate and soft. 

“Ngk,” Crowley replies, and Aziraphale chuckles.

“I am perfectly capable of enjoying myself on my own, but I must admit it is more fun with someone else. I hope you feel the same.” 

“I do.” Crowley brushes his nose against Aziraphale’s neck in a gesture that could be interpreted as a nuzzle, if that was a thing demons did. He’s draped on top of Aziraphale, more snake-like in his limbs than usual.

“You’re going to have to get off me eventually.” Aziraphale pokes him in the shoulder. 

Crowley retaliates by sticking his nose behind Aziraphale’s ear. It tickles. “I will. But not yet.” 

“It does feel very nice,” Aziraphale concedes. “Maybe for a little bit longer.” 


End file.
